Losing Daryl, Catching Freedom
by Aaya123Woods
Summary: Merle has protected Daryl ever since he was born from their abusive father and weak mother. He's tried to keep him safe. But when a problem comes along that Merle can't fix, he finally gathers the strength to break free. AU, no ZA. Kind of a miniseries, extremely short chapters but daily updates.
1. one

"I'm scared, Merle." My little brother buries his face in my chest.

"I know, Daryl," I mumble to the top of his head.

I rock Daryl, eyes shut. He's only four. He shouldn't have to listen to this.

I try to ignore the angels and the demons doing battle behind me.

The demons won.

My father laughs and orders me to get him another beer.

The angels lost.

Something has broken in my mother.

I hate my father.

* * *

**So, this is just a quick little poetry-ish story. It centers around Merle and Daryl, sixteen and four. Merle may seem a little OoC, but keep in mind he's still a teen. Hopefully this will get me followers.**

**Review! :)**


	2. two

I walk home from school with Daryl.

Backs slouched.

Eyes down.

Tongues silent.

If I can do anything for Daryl, it's to teach him not to be noticed.

I get home.

My father is passed out on the couch. I pull Daryl into our room and lock the door.

Feed Daryl and direct him to his homework.

Stay quiet.

* * *

**So! Installment number two in this poetry-ish story.**

**I know, right? Daily updates.**


	3. three

Daryl is sick today.

Fever

Joint pain

Fatigue

He is often sick.

I stay home from school to take care of him.

The next day, I try to sell my soul to the devil

He doesn't take the bait

I can't take Daryl to the doctor.

* * *

**I like writing the word poetry-ish. It's fun.**

**Review!**


	4. four

Daryl is still sick.

I can't take care of him.

My father beat me today.

I had paid more attention to Daryl than him.

I'm doing laundry.

Before putting my mother's sweatshirt in the wash, I check the pockets.

I find a small bag full of white powder.

The angels have fallen.

Daryl has begun to vomit.

Frequent nosebleeds.

Barely speaking for exhaustion.

Last week, when my father punched him in the gut

He got a hideous, enormous bruise that hasn't even begun to fade.

* * *

**All right, the sole reason I'm doing this is for more followers, so if you want more family angsty stuff, check out 'selfish little bitch' or 'Hate.' Thank you, reviewers!**


	5. five

**OMG I'M SO SORRY I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN OVER A WEEK I KNOW I PROMISED DAILY UPDATES. SCHOOL HASN'T ENDED YET AND THEY SEEM TO BE TRYING TO CRAM AS MUCH WORK DOWN OUR THROATS AS POSSIBLE. So, as compensation, here's an extra long chapter.**

* * *

Daryl is sleeping.

He sleeps almost all the time now.

I have missed almost six weeks of school.

Both of my parents are out.

I hurry to Daryl's bed. I shake him.

"Daryl," I whisper. "Come on, Daryl, we're taking a trip."

He doesn't move.

I notice his skin is cool.

Oh, no.

"Daryl!" I yell. I shake his thin shoulders.

He's not breathing.

I gather up his slight body and leave the dirty apartment.

My father ripped out the phone in a drunken fury two months ago.

"Help!" I scream. "Help!"

"He's dead. I'm sorry," says the paramedic.

"Oh, no. Oh, God," I mumble, sinking to the neighbor's floor.

I stare at Daryl's pale face. His lips are blue. He isn't breathing.

My baby brother isn't breathing.

I needed to take him to a doctor.

I should've taken him to a doctor.

"Oh, God," I whisper. I watch them zip a black bag over Daryl.

I cannot do anything but curl up on the floor and cry.


	6. six

My mother comes into my room.

I ignore her.

"His funeral is Thursday," she says. Her voice sounds brittle.

"Why didn't you let me take him to the doctor?"

She doesn't answer.

"Did you think that he would leave you alone?"

I sit up, stare at my former guardian angel.

"Did you think you'd get more time to snort heroin?"

"Merle."

"Did you think that maybe Daryl would just fade away, you wouldn't have to deal with him? Or at this point, is it that you didn't care anymore? All you wanted was to get yourself out?"

I'm yelling, and I don't know why, or how to stop. All I know is that either it was my mother's fault, my father's, or mine.

My mother's cell phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Is this the Dixon residence?"

"Yes."

"We've called to give you the results of the autopsy. Daryl Dixon's cause of death was untreated acute myeloid leukemia."

"Y-you mean I could have saved him?"

I think my voice is made of glass.

"It's sometimes mistaken for a less serious illness. AML is also very rare in children. I'm sorry."

"I could have saved him!" I scream. I realize that I'm crying.

I hear the dial tone.

Everyone's gone.


	7. seven

I haven't slept in three days.

I think that maybe if I just keep hoping and praying and wishing, Abby will come through the door and hold out her single ratty rag doll.

She'll ask to play hairdresser.

Take out my mother's brush and scrunchie.

And I'll sit down and play with her.

I'll do anything.

* * *

I hear my father's drunken scream.

It's become more frequent since Thursday.

I know the routine.

I rush to the kitchen, grab the prepared sandwich.

I creep into the living room, placing the sandwich on the table. If he's distracted eating, he won't be distracted beating up me or my mother.

I'm not sure I'm worried about my mother.

I wonder if that makes me a bad person.

I decide it doesn't matter.


	8. eight

Knock on the door.

My parents are too busy drinking to do anything.

So I open it.

It's become like this.

I get prompted to do something, and my body reacts.

I don't think. If I do, I will stop functioning.

It's a woman in a suit.

"Hello, you are Merle Dixon, correct?" she asks.

"Yeah, why?" I say, blocking the doorway with my skinny body.

"Can I talk to you? I'm with Social Services," she says.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

"I'd like to speak to you," she says.

"Either stop being vague or leave us the hell alone!" I yell. I slam the door shut and sink against it.

* * *

I lie on my bed, wondering what to call it.

It's not sorrow. Sorrow means acceptance.

Grief? Grief is not an angry word. I'm too furious to be grieving.

But I'm not angry at anything. How could I be angry when my sister isn't here?

Heartbreak doesn't even begin to describe it.

Confusion?

Fear?

Sadness?

Shock?

What is it?


End file.
